Throughout my years of schooling, especially early on, I always relied on the teacher to teach me. I never thought it was my responsibility to teach myself because, well, there was a teacher right there. What was his or her role if I was expected to teach myself the material? As long as I did what the teacher said, I was guaranteed a decent grade in the class. I was a strategic learner playing the game of school.
In my high school English class, a subject I really did not like, I used to do whatever was necessary to get an "A" in the class. Just like students from Fried's "The Passionate Teacher," I simply did as I was told. I handed in assignments on time and wrote exactly what I knew the teacher was looking for. When it came to group projects and presentations, no one dared to raise their hand when the teacher asked, "Does anyone have any questions or comments?" Why would they? They did their portion of the project and knew that standing at the front of the room would get them a high grade. What was the point in asking questions and putting a group on the spot? Everyone caught on to how to slide past in the class. The teacher never fought it because it was not worth her time to negotiate with the students.
In my family, I am known as the one with all the brains. I never struggled throughout school and always scored high on exams. Even in my friend group, I was the "smart one." A few years ago my best friend told me I was the smartest girl she knew. After that day, I really thought about it. I never considered myself brilliant. I just knew what I had to do in order to get a high grade. Most of the time that just meant simply showing up to class. I retained almost nothing after it was written down on an exam. It was as if the facts flowed right from my brain to the paper where they'd stay forever. I spent my entire middle and high school career studying for one test at a time. I remembered facts or ways to remember the answers to exams. I never thought on a deeper level because I was never taught or told to. At the end of senior year, I questioned my intelligence.
At graduation, I tried remembering what I learned in the previous four years that got my to where I was in that moment. I couldn't have told you anything about American or world history, Shakespeare's writing, chemistry, or physics. I think I was the only student panicking over my intelligence moments before I walked across the stage to receive my diploma. "Am I only 'smart' because I figured out the tricks in school? Everyone says college is so different. Will I still be able to get good grades? I'm only book smart, not street smart. How am I going to survive the real world?" I tried not to think about it because I thought I just sounded crazy. Little did I know that I'd be questioning it again in my sophomore year of college. The questions I asked myself two years ago are those that make me question American education today.
In my high school English class, a subject I really did not like, I used to do whatever was necessary to get an "A" in the class. Just like students from Fried's "The Passionate Teacher," I simply did as I was told. I handed in assignments on time and wrote exactly what I knew the teacher was looking for. When it came to group projects and presentations, no one dared to raise their hand when the teacher asked, "Does anyone have any questions or comments?" Why would they? They did their portion of the project and knew that standing at the front of the room would get them a high grade. What was the point in asking questions and putting a group on the spot? Everyone caught on to how to slide past in the class. The teacher never fought it because it was not worth her time to negotiate with the students.
In my family, I am known as the one with all the brains. I never struggled throughout school and always scored high on exams. Even in my friend group, I was the "smart one." A few years ago my best friend told me I was the smartest girl she knew. After that day, I really thought about it. I never considered myself brilliant. I just knew what I had to do in order to get a high grade. Most of the time that just meant simply showing up to class. I retained almost nothing after it was written down on an exam. It was as if the facts flowed right from my brain to the paper where they'd stay forever. I spent my entire middle and high school career studying for one test at a time. I remembered facts or ways to remember the answers to exams. I never thought on a deeper level because I was never taught or told to. At the end of senior year, I questioned my intelligence.
At graduation, I tried remembering what I learned in the previous four years that got my to where I was in that moment. I couldn't have told you anything about American or world history, Shakespeare's writing, chemistry, or physics. I think I was the only student panicking over my intelligence moments before I walked across the stage to receive my diploma. "Am I only 'smart' because I figured out the tricks in school? Everyone says college is so different. Will I still be able to get good grades? I'm only book smart, not street smart. How am I going to survive the real world?" I tried not to think about it because I thought I just sounded crazy. Little did I know that I'd be questioning it again in my sophomore year of college. The questions I asked myself two years ago are those that make me question American education today.